At Dusk's Last Light
by WolfPaladin
Summary: Set just before the vents of the Cataclysm itself. One man finds out about the Twilight Hammer's macabre plan. Can he stop the tragedy that must follow? *Note - This story won't be that regularly updated since I have a lot of exams to write, but do read it first!*
1. Chapter 1

**At Dusk's Last Light**

* * *

_This story is a World of Warcraft adaptation of the Thirty Nine Steps, an adventure story by John Buchan. All OC's are mine. Any WoW Canon characters belong to Blizzard. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental._

_(I know, that sounds like a movie title, but hey, blame the damn legalese!)_

* * *

_This story is set during the prelude to the Cataclysm. For the purposes of the story, a year has passed since the end of the Northrend War against the Scourge, but the Cataclysm has not yet hit._

* * *

**Chapter One - The Dead Elf**

I returned home to my quarters in the Trade District of Stormwind at around Five, on a sunny May afternoon, and pretty much disgusted with life in general. I'd been about six months in peacetime, back in the Home Regions, and I was fed up - you have no idea how much. If some idiot had told me that I'd be this way when I was in Northrend fighting the Scourge, I'd have laughed my head off, but there - I can't disregard the facts. The weather was too mild, the talk of the ordinary Stormwind men and women made me sick, there was not enough exercise, and the amusements of the Kingdom were about as stale as a mug of Ale left in the sun. _"John Hannay"_, I said to myself, _"You got into the wrong foxhole, buddy, and you'd better climb out."_

I felt like kicking myself when I thought of the plans I'd been building up for the past ten years I'd spent fighting across Azeroth. Like most mercenaries out there, I was rich - not like a one of those snooty lords, mind you - and I'd figured there were all kinds of ways of enjoying myself. I'd left Stormwind a few months after the fall of Lordaeron in the north, seeking my fortune, and I'd not returned even once since then, so Stormwind had been like some distant dream then. I counted on stopping here for the rest of my days.

But from the first, I was disappointed. In about a week, I got tired of sightseeing, and in less than a month, the peace and quiet of the countryside made me go mad. I had no real pal to go about with, which probably explains things. Plenty of people invited me to their houses (old friends, friends of my family, their friends - you get the idea), but they never could quite connect with my way of thinking - no surprise there, they'd never done anything more aggressive than shake their fists at some errand boy. They'd fling a question at me about Kalimdor, Northrend, Outland and probably even Stranglethorn Vale, and then get on with their own business. A lot of Nobles asked me to tea to meet other toffs like them, and that was the most dismal business of all. Here I was, thirty-two years old, sound in wind, sound in limb, with enough money and time to enjoy myself, and I was yawning my head off all day. I had just about settled to get back to the mercenary life, for I was the best bored man in the Alliance.

* * *

That afternoon, I went to the Stormwind Counting House to worry my bankers about my investments, to give my mind something to work on. On my way home, I turned into the nearby Inn _(rather a pothouse, for there were always ex-military in there)_. I had a long drink, and began to read the evening papers. They were full of the row in Dalaran between the Silver Covenant and the Sunreavers, and there was an article about Thrall, the Orcish Warchief. Despite him being the Horde faction chief, I kind of fancied the chap. From all accounts, he was the one big man in the show - and he played a straight game too, which was more than could be said about most of those losers. I gathered the Warsong Clan didn't like him much, but that everybody respected him, and that he was the only thing standing between Azeroth and all-out War, especially after the Wrathgate Incident and the Battle for the Undercity. I remember wondering if I could get a job in Kalimdor again - those parts seemed like the place to go - yet again - that could keep a man from yawning.

Around seven, I went home, dressed, dined at the Blue Recluse, and went to watch a musical performance in the Mage Gardens. It was all crap, of course, more silly-faced men and women prancing around, and I left at half-time. The night was fine and clear _(again, and it was irritating me even more)_. The people in the street went past me, busy and chattering, and I envied them for having something to do. Those shop-girls, clerks, guards, dandies - they had some interest in life that kept them going. I saw that beggar near the Trade District yawn, and I tossed him a silver - he was a fellow sufferer. Standing on the bridge of the Valley of Heroes, I looked up into the night sky and swore - oh, I'd been swearing away all the while internally, but this was a swell affair - a terrible oath and followed it up with hawking and spitting into the canal, which made some of the guards nearby wince. As I did that, I vowed to myself that I'd give the Kingdom another week to give me something to work on. If not, I was going to get on the first boat to Kalimdor.

* * *

My residence was the first floor in the Central Trade District. There was a common staircase, with the landlady and porter on the ground floor, but there was no restaurant or cookhouse in the building, and each flat was quite shut off from the others. I hate servants on the premises, so I had a chap to look after me who came in by the day. He arrived at Eight every morning and left by Seven in the evening, since I never dined at home_ (I can't cook, unlike other mercs - my bad - and I'm far too lazy to skedaddle all over the place for it)_.

I was just fitting my key into the lock, when I noticed a man slouching about nearby. I hadn't seem him there, so I jumped a bit at his sudden appearance. He was a High-Elf, slim with sharp, glowing blue eyes and long fair hair. I recognized him as the resident in the flat just a few doors away from mine. I'd probably seen him once or twice, said Hello or Good Morning, but that must have been it until that evening.

"Can I speak to you?" he said. "Can I come in, just for a minute?" He was steadying his voice with quite some effort, I noted, and his hand was twitching quite a bit.

I got my door open and ushered him in. No sooner was he over the threshold that he ran to the back room, where I'd smoke and write my letters. The he ran back "Is the door bolted?" he asked feverishly, and he fastened the chain with his own hand. "I'm sorry, quite really I am," he said humbly. "It's a mighty liberty, but you look like the kind of fellow who'd understand. I've had you in mind all week when things started going to pot. Say, can you do me a good turn?"

"I'll listen", I said, "that's all I can promise for now." I was getting a bit worried over his antics - he seemed like some nervous ferret, all fired up.

There was tray of drinks nearby, from which he filled for himself a stiff Kungaloosh glass. He drank it off in three gulps, and set the glass down so hard it cracked.

"Pardon", he said, burping slightly. "I'm a bit rattled tonight. You see, I happen at this moment to be dead."

I sat down in my armchair and lit up my pipe. "What does it feel like?" I asked. I was pretty certain I was dealing with some madcap. Might as well do it in a calm and orderly fashion.

He smiled, a smile which seemed to light up his rather drawn face. "I'm not mad - not yet anyway. Say, sir, I've been watching you, and I reckon you're a cool customer. I reckon, too, that you're an honest chap, decent and not afraid of playing a bold hand. I'm going to confide in you, because of that. I need help worse than any one ever needed it, and I want to know if I can count you in."

"How about you get on with your yarn, and I'll tell you?" I propped up my legs on the coffee-table in front of me.

He seemed to brace himself for a great effort, and then began the queerest rigmarole. I didn't get hold of it at first, and I had to stop him and ask questions. But here's the basic gist of it -

He was a High Elf, from the old Quel'Thelas region, and after becoming a trained Swordsman and being quite well off financially, had wandered the world for a long time _(apparently some 50 years - he was 250 right about then)_. He wrote a bit, fought in all three Wars, and spent some seven years in Kalimdor and Outland. I gathered he was a linguist too, and he had got to know pretty well the important people in those parts. He spoke familiarly of names I'd seen only in newspapers. He had played about with politics, he told me, at first for the heck of it, and later because he couldn't help himself. I read him out as a sharp, restless chap, who always wanted to get down to the root of things. He got a little further down than he wanted.

I'm giving you what he told me as best as I could make it out - away behind the Horde and Alliance and the bands of mercs and armies, there was a big subterranean movement going on, literally and figuratively, engineered by very, very dangerous people. He had come upon it by accident; it fascinated him; he went in further, and got caught. I gathered that most of the people in it were those apocalyptic prediction types, who wanted the whole world and all creation to end just because it didn't agree with their way of looking at things, and their backers were either nutjobs or war profiteer bands, who were playing it for the money. War is a highly lucrative business, and it suited their book too, to set Azeroth and even Outland by the ears.

He told me some queer things that explained a lot that had puzzled me - things that happened at the Theramore Peace summit which failed, why always there was some irritant in Alliance-Horde relations, why certain men and women disappeared, and where the Horde got dragons in the First and Second Wars. The aim of the whole conspiracy was to get every faction on Azeroth at loggerheads.

When I asked why, he said that the apocalyptic lot thought they'd have their chance. Everything would be powdered, and a new world would emerge. The profiteers would rake in the gold, and make fortunes buying and selling the wreckage. What nobody knew was that it was all hogwash - and that the REAL masters of the movement would make sure nothing was left standing alive on the planet except them and their chosen minions. He called them the Old Gods, and he shook visibly even at this reference, every time he made it.

"Is it any wonder?" He hissed. "For untold millennia they've slumbered underground, waiting for the time to be free. The bastards, they spread their tentacles everywhere, poisoning minds to their cause. Nobody sees the damnedness of it, that's the kicker. Ahn'Qiraj, Azjol-Nerub and Ulduar were just glimpses of what lies beyond. We'll all be screwed big time of those things get out!"

I asked him if there were not those who didn't buy it, or who broke free.

"Yes and no," he said. "Indoctrination doesn't always work, but like all autocratic ways of authority, they struck the point that can't be opposed - namely that if enough people recite a lie, it becomes the truth, even if it's not. And if it's an idea they go fanatical for and die for, thinking they'll reach salvation, so much the better. But the bastards - they have an ace up their sleeve they haven't played yet. And unless I keep alive for at least a month, they are going to play it, and win."

"But you said it yourself - you're dead."

"Mors jauna vitae," he smiled. "I'm coming to that, but you're going to have to wise up about a lot of things. If you've been reading your news regularly, I assume you've heard the name of Thrall, the Son of Durotan?"

At that, I sat up. "What about it?" I asked.

"He's the guy who's screwing up their plans. The one big brain in the whole damned show, and he's honest to the core. So they've been trying to eliminate him for some years now. I found that out - not that it was difficult, for any fool could guess as much. But, I found out HOW they were going to do it, and that knowledge was deadly. That's why I had to...decease."

He had another drink, and I mixed it for him myself, for I was getting interested in the bloke.

"Now, they can't kill him in Orgrimmar, for the Kor'Kron are the sort who'll skin their own grandmothers. But he's going to be appointed to the Earthen Ring as a senior officer, and he'll be headed for a series of initiation ceremonies, the largest, and final one, of which is on June 15th. Now he's the star of the show, and if these madmen have it their way, he'll never return to Orgrimmar alive."

"Sounds simple enough. You just warn him and keep him at home."

"And play their game?" He asked sharply. "If he doesn't come, the Earthen Ring is pretty much useless, and these madmen would have won. Besides, their new Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream, is a stupid, ogre-headed son of a bitch. He won't listen to any warnings, and if I try sending it, he'll probably use it for blowing his nose. And if Thrall isn't warned why, he won't come, for he doesn't know how big the stakes are on June 15th."

"What about the Ring itself?" I said. "They're not going to let their honored guest be murdered. Tip them the wink, they'll take extra precautions."

'No good. They might stuff the whole meeting with every possible protection known to Azerothian minds, and Thrall would still be a doomed man. The madmen aren't playing this game for candy, I tell you. They want a big occasion for the taking off, with the eyes of all Azeroth on it. He'll be murdered by a Human, and there'll be plenty of evidence to show the connivance of the folk from the Alliance, particularly the Draenei and Night Elves. It'll all be an infernal lie, of course, but the case will look black enough to the world. I'm not spewing hot air, friend - I have the whole detail of the plot, and it's the most accomplished piece of blackguardism since Medivh opened the Dark Portal. But it's not going to happen as long as I have something to say for it on the 15th of June. And that man is me - Salren Dawnstrike."

* * *

I was getting to like this Elf. His jaw had shut like a rat-trap, and there was the fire of battle on those sharp blue eyes. If he was spinning a yarn, he certainly could act up to it.

"So, where did you find out this story?" I asked.

"I got the first hint of it in an inn in Tanaris. That set me inquiring, and I collected my other clues in Everlook, in Un'Goro Crater and in Silithus. The final pieces I composed in Theramore and later on in Ulduar. I won't give you the details now, for it's one long story. When I became absolutely certain, I decided I had to vanish, and reached Stormwind by a mighty queer circuit. I left Dalaran a dandified young Magister, sailed from Shattrath as a Refugee, departed from Booty Bay as a Fishing Expert, and left Darkshore as a Real-Estate agent. I reached Stormwind on that alias, and thought I'd mucked up my trail some, so I was feeling real happy. Then..." the recollection seemed to upset him, and he downed some more Kungaloosh.

"Then I saw one fellow standing on the street outside this building. I stayed in my room all day, and watched him for a bit from the window. I thought he seemed vaguely familiar. He came and talked with the landlady a bit, and then strolled off. About an hour later an envelope dropped into my mail slot. It bore...this." And with a half-sob, he threw a parchment piece on the table. It showed a rising sun and a mace in front of, with some illegible runes below it. "That symbol, and the name below, are the last things I'd hoped to see ever while I was alive."

I think that the look of naked fear, the terror in his eyes, completed my conviction of his honesty. My own voice sharpened a bit as I asked him what he did then.

"I realised I was fucked, and that there was only one way out. I had to die, no choice in the matter. If they knew I was dead, they'd stop, and I could buy some time."

"So, how did you manage it?"

"I told the chap that valets me that I was feeling really bad, and I got myself up to look like death. That wasn't hard, for I'm no slouch at disguises. Then I got a corpse - you can always get a corpse in Stormwind if you know where to go for it. I fetched it back in a trunk on the top of a cart, and I had to be assisted upstairs to my room. You see, I had to pile up some evidence for the investigation. I went to bed and told the Valet to mix me a sleeping-draught, then told him to fuck off. He wanted to go for a doctor, and I threw my boot at him, swore a bit more about doctors and leeches. When he finally left, I started to fake up the corpse. He was about my size, and probably died because of too much alcohol, so I put some drinks handy all over the place. The jaw was the weak point in the similarity, so I smashed it away with a sword. Unless they make a real careful check, they won't notice much, so I risked it. I left the body all dressed in my bedclothes, with a sword lying nearby and a real mess in the apartment. Then I got into a suit of clothes I keep for emergencies. I didn't dare shave, since that would leave behind traces, and it wasn't any use trying to get onto the streets. I had you in my mind all day, and there was nothing left to do but appeal to you. I watched until you came home, and then I slipped out and waited near your door...there, sir, I guess you know as much about this as I do now."

He sat there, blinking like an owl, fluttering with nerves and yet desperately determined. By this time, I was thoroughly convinced he was going straight with me. It was a wild, crazy story, but I'd heard queerer things that had turned out to be true in my time, and I'd made a practice of judging the man telling the tale rather than the tale itself. If he had wanted to grab my flat, and then slit my throat, he'd have gone for a lesser yarn.

"Hand me your keys," I said, "and I'll take a look at the corpse. Excuse my caution, but I'm bound to verify a bit if I can."

He shook his head dismally. "I reckoned you'd ask for that. I haven't got it. It's on my chain on the dressing-table. I had to leave it behind, for I couldn't leave any clues to breed suspicion. The gentry who're after me might be mad, but they're pretty bright-eyed. Just trust me, one night only, and tomorrow you'll find proof of this corpse-business sure enough."

I thought for an instant or two. "Alright. Just tonight. I'm going to lock you into this room, and keep the key. Just one thing, . I believe you're straight, but any tricks and I'll turn you into a fishing net. I'm pretty handy with a sword, so beware."

"Sure," he said, jumping up with some briskness. "I haven't the privilege of your name, sir, but let me tell you that you're a man worth his salt. I'll thank you to lend me a razor."

I took him to the bedroom and turned him loose. About half-an-hour later, a figure emerged that I didn't even remotely recognize. Only the sharp, blue eyes were the same. He was shaved clean, his hairstyle had changed to a high foxtail, and he had trimmed his eyebrows, making them look even longer. Further, he carried himself like he'd been drilled, and was the very model, even to his skin-tone, of some Officer who had had a long spell in Northrend service. He had a monocle, too, which he stuck into his eye, and every trace of the Stormwind accent had gone out of his speech.

"By the Light... , I-", I stuttered.

"Not Mister Dawnstrike," he corrected in a high-flown tone. "Captain Theophilus Sunwalker, Paladin-Champion of the Argent Crusade, presently home on leave. I'll thank you to remember that, sir, and to show the appropriate respect and titles. Pip-pip, and tally-ho, let's get on with the bloody thing."

I made him up a bed in the smoking-room, and sought my own bed, more cheerful than I'd been for the past few months. Some things did happen occasionally, even in this Light-forgotten metropolis.

* * *

**I don't know if I should continue with this story or not, so let me know, will you?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two - A Blade in the Dark**

* * *

I woke up next morning to hear my man, Dalfors, making the deuce of a row at the smoking-room door. This chap was a friend, for whom I'd done a good turn when I was in Dustwallow Marsh and he'd followed me just about everywhere, and agreed to become my manservant when I told him was settling down in Stormwind. He had about as much gift of the gab as a kodo, and wasn't a great hand at valeting _(added was an unfortunate tendency to blow off his cash as soon as he got it)_, but I knew I could count on his loyalty.

"Dalfors, stop that row," I said. "There's a friend of mine, Captain - Captain" _(I couldn't remember the infernal name)_ "dossing down in there. Get breakfast for two and then come and speak to me."

I told Dalfors a fine story about how my friend was a great swell, with his nerves pretty bad from overwork, who wanted absolute rest and stillness. Nobody had got to know he was here, or he would be besieged by communications from the Argent Crusade and his cure would be ruined. And Salren played up his role brilliantly when he came down to breakfast, I must admit. He fixed Dalfors with his Monocle, just like an old officer, asked him about the Shattered Sun Offensive, and slung out at me a lot of stuff about imaginary pals. Dalfors couldn't learn to call me "sir", but he "sirred" Salren as if his life depended on it.

I left him with a box of cigars and a newspaper, and went into the City till lunchtime. When I got back, the landlady had an important face.

"Nawsty business 'ere this morning, sah. Gent in No. 15 been and killed 'isself. They've just took 'im to the mortiary. The Guard are up there now."

I ascended to No. 15, and found a couple of Guards and a chap called Officer Brody busy in examining the place. I asked a few idiotic questions and they soon kicked me out. Then I found Salren's valet, and pumped him, but I could see he knew zero. He was a whining fellow with a churchyard face, and a coin of gold went a long way to console him.

I attended the investigation next day. A partner of some Real-Estate firm in Elwynn gave evidence that the 'deceased' had brought him some land propositions in Darkshore, and he had been, he believed, a freelancer. The officials decided it was probably a case of unsound mind and suicide, and the few personal effects were handed over to the High Elven Consul to deal with. I gave Salren a full account of the matter, and it amused him greatly. He said he wished he could have attended the investigation, for he reckoned it would have been about as spicy as to read one's own obituary notice.

The first two days he stayed with me in that back-room he was very peaceful. He read a lot, smoke a bit, and every night he played Chess and Cards with me, and at which he beat me hollow. I think he was nursing his nerves back to health, for he had had a pretty trying time. But on the third day, he began to get restless.

He fixed up a list of days till June 15th, and ticked each off with a red pencil, making remarks in shorthand against each day. I would find him sunk in a brown chintz chair, with his sharp eyes all foggy, and after those spells of meditation he was apt to be very despondent.

Then I could see he was beginning to get edgy again. He listened for little noises, and was always asking me if Dalfors could be trusted. Once or twice he got pretty irritable, and apologized for it. I didn't blame him, really - it was one heck of a stiff job he'd taken on, and I made every allowance for that.

It was not the safety of his own skin that mattered to him, but the success of whatever plan he'd made out. This Elf was clean and hard as steel all through, without a soft spot in him. It was worth admiring, really. One night, he got pretty solemn. "Say, Hannay," he said, "I judge I should let you a bit more deep into this business. I should just hate to go out without leaving somebody else to put up a fight." And he began to tell me in detail what I had only heard from him vaguely.

I confess I did not give him very close attention. The fact is, I was more interested in his own adventures rather than in his high politics. At that point, I though Thrall and his problems were not in my purview, leaving that to him. So a lot that he said slipped clean out of my mind. I do remember some points though - that the danger to him wouldn't begin until the Earthen Ring invited him, and that it came from the very highest quarters, where there would be no draught of suspicion. He mentioned the name of a Human woman - Julia Czechenyi - as having something to do with the matter. I gathered that she would either be a decoy, or the assassin, to get him out of the reach of his Kor'Kron. He talked to, about a Twilight Hammer and a Blood Elf who lisped in his speech, and he described very particularly somebody that he never referred to without a palpable trace fear - an old dwarf with a young voice who could hood his eyelids like a hawk.

He spoke a great deal about death too. He was mortally anxious about winning through with his job, but he didn't give a damn about his own life. "I reckon, it's like going to sleep when you're pretty well tired out, and waking up to find a summer's day with the scent of hay coming in through the window. I used to thank the Light for such mornings way back in Eversong Woods, and I guess I'll thank the Light when I wake up in it's realm."

The next day he was much more cheerful, and read about the life of Anduin Lothar much of the time. I went out to dinner with an Engineering officer I had got to see on business, and came back in about half-past ten in time for our games of Chess and Cards before turning in.

I had a cigar in my mouth, I remember, as I pushed open the smoking-room door. The lights were not lit, which struck me as odd. I wondered if Salren had turned in early. I lit the lamp on the ceiling, but there was nobody there. Then I saw something in the corner of the room which made me drop my cigar and fall into a cold sweat.

Salren Dawnstrike, my guest, was lying sprawled in the corner. his heart had been ripped out, He was splattered with blood, as were the floor and walls around him, and there was a knife through his throat which skewered him to the wall. The knife had the sigil of a rising sun and hammer on the hilt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three - The Milkman**

* * *

I sat down in an armchair and felt very sick. That lasted for some five minutes, and was succeeded by a fit of the horrors. The poor white staring face was more than I could bear, and I managed to get a tablecloth and cover it. Then i staggered to the wine-cupboard, found a bottle of Dwarven Stout and drained several mouthfuls. I had seen men die violently before - heck, in the years I'd killed many myself. But this cold-blooded indoor business was a whole new thing entirely. Still, I managed to pull myself together. I looked at the hourglass, and saw that it was half-past ten.

An idea seized me, and I scanned all over the flat with as much care as I could. There was nobody there, and no traces of anybody, but I shuttered and bolted all the windows and out the chain upon the door. By this point, my wits were coming back to me, and I could think again. It took me about an hour to think it all out, and I didn't hurry, since unless the killer came back, I had till about six in the morning for my cogitations.

* * *

I was pretty much fucked - that much was obvious. Any shadow of a doubt I might have had about the truth of Salren's tale was now gone. The proof of it was under the damn tablecloth. Those who knew that he knew had found him, and done exactly what they saw fit to ensure his silence. Yes - and he'd been in my room for over a week, which meant that his enemies must have reckoned that he'd confided in me. So, I would be the next to go. It might be that very night or tomorrow, or a few days later, but I was right on top of their shit-list, there was no doubt in that.

Then I thought of other probabilities. Assuming I went out now and called the police, or went to bed and let Dalfors find the body in the morning, what then? What kind of story would I tell about Salren? I had lied to Dalfors, and the whole thing looked desperately fishy. If I stayed honest and told the Guard everything, they would simply laugh at my face. The odds were a thousand to one that I would be charged with his murder, and the circumstantial evidence was enough to get me hanged, or a life in the Stockades. Few people knew me in Stormwind, and I had no real pal who would come forward and swear to my character. Maybe that was what those madmen were playing for. They were clever enough for anything, and the Stockades were as good a way of getting rid of me till after June 15th, as a knife through my throat.

Also, if I told the whole story, and by any chance I was believed, I would be playing their game. Thrall would stay nice and safe in Orgrimmar, which was what they wanted. Somehow, the sight of poor Salren's dead face had made me a passionate believer in his scheme. He was gone, to be sure, but he had taken me into his confidence, and I was still pretty well bound to carry on his task.

You might think this ridiculous for a man in danger of his life, but that wasn't the way I looked at it. I'm just an ordinary sort of chap, not braver than others, but I hate to see a good man downed, and that long knife wouldn't be the end of Salren, if I could play the game in his place.

* * *

It took me an hour to think this out, and I had come to a decision. I had to vanish, somehow, and stay vanished until the second week of June. Then I had to find a way to get in touch with Alliance Command and tell them what Salren had told me. I wished to heaven he'd told me more, and that I had listened to what little he had told me more carefully. I knew nothing save for the barest facts. There was the big risk too - that even if I weathered every other danger, I wouldn't be believed in the end. I had to take my chance of that, and hope that something would happen that would confirm my tale in the eyes of the Alliance.

My first job was to keep going for the next two or three weeks. It was now the 24th of May, which meant twenty days of hiding, before I could venture to approach the powers that be. I reckoned that two sets of people would look for me - the madmen who wanted to end my existence, and the Guard, who would want me for Salren's murder. It was going to be a giddy hunt, and it was queer how the prospect comforted me. I had been slack so long that almost any chance of action was now welcome. When I had to sit alone with that corpse and wait on fate, I was no better than a crushed worm, but if my neck's safety was to hang on my own wits I was prepared to be cheerful about it.

My next thought was if Salren had any papers or documents about to give me a better clue to this whole affair. I drew back the tablecloth and searched his pockets, since by now I had looted from enough corpses to no longer feel squeamish. The face was wonderfully calm for a man who'd probably been killed gruesomely. There was nothing in his pockets, save for a few coins, a cigarette-holder, a penknife and a pencil. There was no sign of the little black book he used to make notes in. No doubt, his killer had taken that.

But as I looked up from my task, I saw that some drawers had been pulled out in the writing table. Salren wouldn't have done that - like most high elves, he was fanatical about order and cleanliness. Someone had been searching through them, probably for the pocket-book.

I went through the flat and found that every damned thing had been ransacked - the inside of books, drawers, cupboards, boxes, even the pockets of clothes in the wardrobe and the sideboard in the dining room. There was no trace of the book. It was likely the enemy had found it, but not on Salren's body.

* * *

Then, I got out an atlas and looked at a big map of the Eastern Kingdoms. My idea was to get off to some wild district, where my experience as a mercenary would help, for I was a dead duck in the City. I decided that the Wetlands, Arathi Highlands and the Hinterlands would be best, since my people were from Stromgarde, and I could easily pass off as an ordinary Arathi. I had half a mind to pretend I was from Gilneas, for I knew the lingo pretty fluently, and my father had many friends from that country, not to mention that my mother had also been Gilnean. But the wall was up, and I would be more conspicuous to be seen outside than in, not to mention that it would be best to go in a line the Guard did not know of my past. I fixed on Thelsamar as the best place to go - it was the nearest Alliance town near the contested territories I was heading into, and relatively small at that, so there was less chance of being bagged there than anywhere else.

I quickly calculated some timings, and figured that the Deeprun Tram to Ironforge left at 7.10, which would land me in that capital by 8.00 and from there to Thelsamar it would be about another two hours by Gryphonhawk. All that was very well, but the bigger problem was how to get to the Tram Station without being observed, for I was pretty certain there would be some of Salren's friends watching from outside. This puzzled me for a bit, then I had a brainwave, on which I went and slept for two troubled hours.

* * *

I got up at four and opened my bedroom shutters. The faint light of a fine summer morning was flooding the skies, and the sparrows were beginning to chatter. I felt stupid, and like a God-forgotten fool. My inclination was to let things slide, and trust the Guard to take a reasonable view of things. But as I reviewed the situation, I could find no arguments to bring against my decision of the night before, so with a wry face I resolved to go on with my plan. I wasn't feeling in any particular funk - just disinclined to go looking for trouble, if you understand me.

I pulled out a set of leather armour I'd used in the past, mostly dark coloured and unobtrusive. Into my pockets I stuffed a spare shirt, a cloth cap, some handkerchiefs and a toothbrush. I had drawn a good deal in gold from the bank some days before, in case Salren would have wanted some money, and I took some five hundred gold from it and put it in a secure belt in my armour. I pulled a thick black cloak over it all, to cover it as I walked out. That completed my preparations. Then I went and had a bath, and cut my moustache, which was long and drooping, into a short stubby fringe.

Now came the next step. Normally, Dalfors would come in at 7.30 and let himself in with the key. But at about a quarter less than an hour before he came, the Milkman would show up, as I knew from bitter experience, and with a great clatter of cans, and deposit my share in front of my door. I had seen that chap sometimes, when I'd gone out for an early morning walk. He was a youngish chap, no older than me and about the same height, with an ill-nourished moustache. He also wore a black cloak in the mornings. Upon him I staked all my chances.

I went into the darkened smoking-room where the rays of the morning light were beginning to crepe through the shutters. There, I breakfasted off a mug of Dwarven Ale and some biscuits from the cupboard. By this time, it was getting on for six in the morning. I put a pipe in my pocket, and filled my pouch from the tobacco jar on the table by the fireplace. And as I poked my fingers into the tobacco, I touched something hard, and I drew out Salren's little black pocketbook...

That seemed to me like a good omen. I lifted the cloth from the body and was amazed at the peace and dignity of the dead face. "Goodbye, old chap" I said. "I'm going to do my best for you. Wish me well, wherever you are."

* * *

Then I hung about the hall waiting for the milkman. That was the worst part of the whole business, for I was fairly choking to get out of doors. Six-Thirty passed, then six-forty, and he still didn't come. The fool had chosen this day of all days to be late. Then, at one minute after the quarter to seven, I heard the rattle of the cans outside. I opened the front door, and there he was, singling out my bottles from a bunch he carried, and whistling through his teeth. He jumped a bit at the sight of me.

"Come in here for a bit," I said. "I want a word with you." And I led him to the dining-room. "I reckon you're a bit of a sport," I said, "and I want you to do me a service. Lend me your cap and overall for ten minutes, and here's five gold for you."

His eyes opened at the sight of the gold, and he grinned broadly. "Wot's the gyme?" he asked.

"A bet," I said. "I haven't the time to explain, but to win it I've got to be a milkman for the next ten minutes. All you've got to do is stay here until I get back. You'll be a bit late, but nobody will complain, and you get five gold extra this morning. What do you say?"

"Right-o!" he said cheerily. "I ain't the man to spoil a bit of sport. 'Ere's the rig, guv'nor."

I stuck on his flat blue hat and his black cloak over my own armour and cloak, picked up the cans, banged my door and went whistling downstairs. The landlady at the front desk told me to shut my jaw, with a few other creative obscenities regarding my parentage, which sounded as if my get-up was appropriate.

At first I thought there was nobody in the street. Then I caught sight of a Guard standing a hundred or so yards away, and a loafer shuffling past the general goods store around the corner. Some impulse made me raise my eyes to the house opposite, and there at a firstfloor window was a face. As the loafer passed he looked up, and I fancied a signal was exchanged.

I crossed the street, whistling gaily and imitating the jaunty swing of the milkman. Then I took the first sidestreet, which lead to one of the canals. In one of those alleys there was a bit of a blank area. When I was certain there was no one, I dropped the milk can there, and threw the hat and overalls on top of it. I had just put on my leather helmet when a postman came around the corner. I gave him good morning and he answered unsuspiciously. At the moment the bell of the Cathedral square struck the hour of seven.

There was not a second to spare. As soon as I got to the canal road, I took to my heels and ran for the Dwarven District. The clock above the Tram Station showed five minutes to the train departure as I entered the archway with it's rotating gears and hissing steampipes. I simply ran onto the platform, which was moderately crowded, and onto the train, which had begun to move as soon as I entered it. Panting and wheezing, I climbed into the last carriage.

About three minutes later, as we were roaring through the tunnel, an irate dwarven guard interviewed me. He wrote me out a ticket to Ironforge, and he conducted me from the third-carriage, which was exclusively for tradesmen, into the first carriage, which was for mercenaries. There were already a night elf male, a gnome officer _(probably a priest)_ and a dwarven female there, both hunters from the looks of it. The guard went off grumbling, and I mopped my brow and mentioned in my broadest Arathi dialect _(which sounds a lot like the Dwarven accent, actually, except that the language is Common)_ that it was a sore job catching trains. I had already entered in upon my part.

"The impidence o' that gyaird!" said the Dwarf girl bitterly. "He needit an Arathi tongue to pit him in his place. He was complainin' o' this wean no hain' a ticket _(indicating the gnome)_, and my gun was bein' ribbed at, an' he was objectin' to this gen'lmean spittin'. _(indicating the night elf man)_"

The night elf morosely agreed, and hawked and spat into the darkness outside the tram. And thus I started out in an atmosphere of protest against authority. I reminded myself that a week ago, I had been finding the world dull.


End file.
